I-m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
I-m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.

It seems to me - and this is no fraud -
A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters,
That fierce Hun. And the infection-s fetters
Through length of ages, are my steady bond.

I-m mute. I pine... They vanish - walls of home:
There is a sea in spots of silver foam,
The sun of evening - on the stones- lead,

The city, with blue domes, like its wardens,
With flourish and decor of jasmine gardens,
We-d fought right there... Oh, yes! And I was killed!